


Ferryman: Part Two

by Wereallalittlemadhere



Series: The Ferryman Series [2]
Category: The Dark Pictures: Little Hope (Video Game), The Dark Pictures: Man of Medan (Video Game)
Genre: Another conversation between you and the Curator, No Romance, Not graphic description of violence but it is in there, Other, because why not?, it's building up to something I promise :), slight gaslighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28596618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wereallalittlemadhere/pseuds/Wereallalittlemadhere
Summary: The smoke was suffocating. Every time Anthony inhaled, the smoke would cling to the inside of your throat, making breathing an increasingly difficult task. Your breath turned to a wheeze, and from a wheeze to a gasp until your chest was burning with the need for pure air. From your previous adventure, you knew from the moment the bus left the diner that you were not actually Anthony, even though you could feel everything he felt, totally immersed in his being.The Curator pulls you into another conversation as his plan for you steadily unfolds.....
Series: The Ferryman Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094963
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Ferryman: Part Two

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, sad to say I rushed this chapter, I was just so excited to get it out there. I promise I will take care with the next chapter and in the mean time, comments are always appreciated. Thank you!

The smoke was suffocating. Every time Anthony inhaled, the smoke would cling to the inside of your throat, making breathing an increasingly difficult task. Your breath turned to a wheeze, and from a wheeze to a gasp until your chest was burning with the need for pure air. From your previous adventure, you knew from the moment the bus left the diner that you were not actually Anthony, even though you could feel everything he felt, totally immersed in his being. 

You could feel his shortness of breath, the cold biting at the back of his neck while his face was scorching from the heat of the fire that was quickly consuming his home and loved ones. You could feel his fear and anguish as both his sisters cried for help. Which one did you save? Anthony was calling to you, begging you, his conscience, for help. Did he save Megan, or did he save Tanya? 

You thought back to the events prior. Anthony’s faith in Megan was infectious, and you felt sympathy for the girl who was ostracised by her family. However, the presence that seemed to follow her, you recognised its evil, you had encountered it in the rotting hull of the ship even if it was a figment then. You were sure it wasn’t a figment now, not with how the fire ravaged the house from a strategically placed doll. You felt like laughing. Had this been you, had this really been you standing outside the burning house, you would have chosen to save your little sister, disbelieving in such things as the boogieman. 

Things had changed, however. 

You had met the boogieman. You had sat in his cold office, his repository, you had listened as he mocked you, your lack of understanding of the events unfolding. You had felt his displeasure at your success to save every life on board the Medan, you had felt the burn of his whiskey in your throat and you knew evil was real. You did not think the Curator evil, but somehow his surreal presence alluded to evil forces at work, at work now with Anthony and his sisters who were about to perish. 

You were taking too long. You could feel Anthony becoming more anxious with every passing second, bouncing on the balls of his feet, willing himself to move. He was edging towards Megan, a decision you did not agree with. You snapped into action before he could follow through with his decision. You whispered in his ear to let Megan burn, to let that evil that followed her be consumed by flames. You suggested that Tanya would be easier to save, she was already on the balcony. 

Anthony obeyed. 

You marvelled at your new found power as you focused on the pained screams of the little girl, the flames licking at her body, her skin bubbling and boiling until she fell silent. They did not affect you as you thought they should. You did not feel sadness at her death, rather a sick sense of glee. You had influenced Anthony to save the more worthy sister, the power given to you by the Curator was intoxicating. You felt almost godly with the power to influence Anthony into saving one life over the other. You observed as Anthony talked Tanya through the steps necessary to save her life. She was steadily making her way over to the drainpipe, cautious of the ice that made her journey all the more treacherous. You felt elated as she reached out for the pipe, you were going to save someone, deprive the Curator of the deaths of innocents he so desperately wanted for his story books. Tanya slipped.

You expected moments like this to happen in slow motion, that’s how the media portrayed them. It didn’t. Tanya’s scarf caught on a nail and even over the roaring of the fire you could hear her neck snap. The feeling of elation was gone, replaced by disbelief at your failure to save an innocent. She was supposed to live, yet death had pulled some cheap trick. You continued to watch as Dennis slipped from the roof and was impaled on the iron fence, adding to both your and Anthony’s jointed despair. You felt hazy as Anthony fell to his knees in the snow, your eyelids becoming heavy as you were slowly pulled from Anthony’s mind into a place you were more familiar with. As Anthony ran into the burning house, you expected to feel the flames scorching your body, but you felt cold. 

Opening your eyes you were met with the repository. This time, your view was of one of the many book cases and grand fireplace, the embers slowly dying and popping pathetically, the sound being lost in the large space and the faint sounds of ‘Lacrimosa’ playing in the background. You were at the seating area rather than the desk, a welcome change to your sore back and neck. The leather was still warm from the fire, but quickly cooling.

“I thought you should be more comfortable for this story. It is quite distressing, but I’m sure you’ve come to figure that out, clever thing you are.” He was mocking you again, but you were glad to find his tone playful. After the tragedy you just witnessed, you could not take his scathing remarks and displeasure, it would be too much. He had a way of overwhelming you like that. 

You turned your head towards the desk. There he was, same suit, same hair-cut, same sinister smile. His dexterous fingers lighting a candelabra, though it seemed unnecessary with the sunlight streaming through the window. You flinched slightly as you saw a figure outside, panic spreading from your chest down through your belly and arms, creating a numbing sensation with the need to run until you realised it was only a statue. For a moment you believed it was Tanya hanging outside the window, mocking your failure to save her. Surely, the Curator would not be that cruel. You hoped at least.

How much time had passed since your last encounter? When would you wake from this dream? Was it even a dream? In your last meeting the Curator had said the repository was as real as you were, but it was still hard to believe. You wondered how long it would take for your family to find you. You could not begin to comprehend how they would find you in this otherworldly room. You continued to look at him as your thoughts strayed to your loved ones and his eyes narrowed just a fraction, as if sensing this change in direction.

“Hello, and welcome. I don’t believe that we’ve met before, have we?”

Your thoughts returned to him. 

You thought him senile for a moment. Of course you had met before. You had nearly cried at the revelation that you were not amongst the group onboard the Medan, and you saw his glee at your confusion. On the desk the decanter of whiskey and the two accompanying glasses had not been cleared away, the remaining thin layer of whiskey residue coating the glasses darkening in its exposure to the dry air. He gave you that infuriating smile as he picked up the candelabra and book containing his latest story before making his way over to join you.

“Is old age affecting your memory?” Your voice was stronger this time, unaffected by exhaustion and fear. He chuckled as he seated himself across from you, the candelabra placed on the side table to help his eyes better see his manuscript for Little Hope. It gave you some comfort to see this being, so untouchable and powerful in ways you could not describe, affected by something so human as old eyes. 

“Not in the slightest. I was merely welcoming the new storyteller before me.”

“I’m the same person.“

“But you’re not are you?” He had a habit of doing that, posing statements as questions. He leaned forward in his excitement, the glint in his eye frightened you.

“For all your righteousness, your speech on how you will not give me the outcome I desire and that you would ‘always try to save them’, you let an innocent girl perish in flames, and for what? Tanya broke her neck, and poor Dennis. What a tragic end.” He was ecstatic, his voice becoming louder with each word until it deafened you. You clenched your jaw in anger as he threw your words back in your face, mocking you and your determination to best him. You floundered, a child trying to justify their actions.

“She was evil!”

“Was she? Did she set the fire-“

“Yes!”

“Did she really?” He was insistent. You thought back. Megan placed the doll near the stove, it fell, the flames spread. You levelled your eyes with his, you would not back down to him.

“She started the fire.” He held your gaze as he sat back and made himself comfortable. You had fallen for his tricks once again and you could have slapped yourself in anger. There was no point in trying to justify your actions to him, he already knew everything about this story. The causes and consequences and how they were all joined, he knew the forces working in the background like the demon following Megan. He knew it all. 

“For someone so clever, you can be incredibly dense.” You pursed your lips but did not retort. It was not worth it. Just let him talk at you, listen for anything that might be useful, help him tell his story and hopefully, once you have reached the end, he will release you once he realises you will not bend to his will. Before that however, there was something you needed to know to soothe the guilt that was nagging away at you.

“Was there anything I could have done?”

“About the fire? No there was nothing you could have about that. Any option you would have chosen would have resulted in all their deaths. It’s hard to escape something as ravenous as fire. What has happened has happened.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic for once. This alleviated those feelings of guilt, and rather selfishly, aided your bruised ego. You couldn’t lose to him, not after your challenge to always save everyone. How quick your good deeds have devolved into a competition with a man you were not even sure was a man. 

“Or has it?” He gave that satisfied lopsided smile, the one he used whenever he amused himself. You felt like screaming, he was insufferable. The Curator crossed one leg over the other and opened his book to read through the last page, the contents of which you assumed was the fire. He saw your annoyance and decided that enough was enough and it was time to move on to conclude the story of Little Hope. 

“Listen carefully. You are about to enter a confusing, perhaps disturbing world.”

“More confusing and disturbing than this one?” You questioned. Like him, it seemed, you could not pass an opportunity to deliver a sharp quip regarding him and his world, his repository. The Curator chuckled, seemingly enjoying your new found pluck in comparison to your previous hysterical state.

“Infinitely more so. How ‘disturbing’ this new world may be might depend on what you choose to believe, and how ‘confusing’ on the path you choose to take.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and retrieved a compass hanging on a gold chain. It glinted in the daylight, temporarily blinding you. You had always assumed that a pocket watch would be at the end of that chain, not a compass. Every time you met with the Curator, he always found a way to defy your expectations.

“There are an infinite number of directions in which one could travel. We seldom have all of the information that we’d like, but we have to choose our path nonetheless and hope that we get the clarity, and the outcomes, that we want.” He pocketed the compass, but he did take the opportunity to blind you once more before he did so. He had a childish side to him, you observed. It seemed the more comfortable he became with you, the more willing he was to show it. 

“As in life, your decisions will matter. The choices you make will affect others. You’ve seen how the story starts. So. Much. Death. How many more deaths is entirely up to you, it depends on the decisions that you make. Will you be rational? Emotional?” He leaned forward, the leather creaking under his weight as he reached a hand across the table into your personal space. You wanted to flinch back, this had never happened before, but you held your ground. You don’t know how, but you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. He touched his finger to your forehead, and you were shocked to find he was surprisingly warm. You had always expected him to be cold, freezing like the room around you. 

“Do you trust your head?” The Curator removed his finger and pointed towards your chest, “Or your heart?” He removed himself from your space entirely, leaving you breathless as he settled himself in his chair again.

“There is no right answer. Sometimes one is best, and sometimes, the other. My advice, for what it’s worth, is ‘To thine own self be true’. But I’m here to simply record what you do, not to help you.” He looked around the repository, and you followed suit, but you were the only two souls in there, “I’m not supposed to interfere you see. Not my place apparently.” He sounded slightly bitter about the fact, as if some higher order were preventing him from carrying out these life and death decisions he was forcing you to endure.  
You were surprised that there could be a higher order than the Curator.

“But I am, apparently, allowed to share wise words from great storytellers that have gone before. Where I feel that would be appropriate. Oh, one final thing before I let you go. There are pictures in Little Hope that will, if found, show you a vision of a possible future. Something that may, or may not, happen.” He gestured to the portrait above the fire place, which you could see had once again shifted to show a rather damaged painting of a cat under a partially painted moon. You were slowly becoming accustomed to ever changing repository, and it scared you just how common place this world was becoming, “Use them. They might help you.”

You had been carefully taking the information in. There was nothing that you did not already know, but you were grateful for the reminder of the little hints and clues scattered around the world you were about to encounter. Sometimes you could get so swept up in the lives of those you were guiding, their fears and the demons pursuing you, you forgot that help was a portrait away. The Curator may not be allowed to interfere, but he tried to where he could it seemed. Maybe he was trying to influence you. 

He smiled at you in encouragement before he focused his attention on the book resting in his lap. Your eyelids became heavy once again, and you did not fight it, there was no point. Instead you settled yourself into the chair, resting your neck against the soft back and folding your arms over your stomach. Best to make yourself comfortable, you never knew how long it would take for him to summon you back. 

“You have a funeral to attend. Off you go. Have fun.” Your eyes closed fully, Lacrimosa in the background reaching its crescendo and consuming you, taking you away from your body and into Anthony’s mind once more. 

“I do enjoy a good funeral.”


End file.
